


A Hospital Stay and a Beautiful Girl

by gayisnotasynonymforailsa



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anorexia, F/M, Idk if u can post this sort of thing on here, Mental Hospital, Romance, So yeah, Suicide, Trans Character, Transphobia, but i wanted to share, original - Freeform, triggering af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayisnotasynonymforailsa/pseuds/gayisnotasynonymforailsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian is a trans guy who's best friend left him and 6 months later he attempts suicide and ends up in a hospital. And in the hospital, something miraculous happens: Chloe comes back. Only, she's nothing like before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hospital Stay and a Beautiful Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Written for creative writing class.
> 
> A warning to those who are easily triggered: This story contains drug use, smoking, suicide, anorexia, self harm, domestic abuse, transphobia, and conversion therapy. There are also hints at parental abuse/neglect and rape. Please read with caution.

It's never easy to be like this. Different, broken, freak. Always alone. On a different wavelength. On the outside looking in. There's a thousand cliche sayings for being this person, but none of them capture the suffering of being far away, being alone when there are hundreds of people in the room. No one don't know what it feels like. I do.

 

Six months ago, the only friend I had told me to "fuck off" because I was "manipulative" and "abusive". I don't know what she meant by this, since as far as I know, I'm neither of those things. But then again, I can't see me, which explains why I don't truly understand everyone's hatred of me. The last thing she said was, "pinky swear to me you won't kill yourself". For six months I kept that promise.

 

It's May now. Warm, sunny days that feel a million miles away from December. But that doesn't change that I still hear her words every day. It doesn't change that I dream about her every night. It doesn't change that I hope one day I will wake up to a message saying, "Sebastian, I miss you. I love you." It never will.  
That's why I took those pills. I don't even know if you can actually overdose on them, but 25 little Advil capsules swallowed at once in the girls bathroom did make me pass out. I wish they had killed me, wish they had done what I wanted them to do. I wish that freshman girl, with her auburn bun and leggings and smile and all the hope of being 14, had never walked in. I wish she'd never screamed, "I think Katie's dead! I wish she hadn't called 911 on her iPhone and I wish the ambulance had never come and brought me to the hospital on a stretcher. I wish my parents hadn't cried at my bed and prayed and told me that they never even knew. Of course they never knew. They never cared enough to see that their daughter was actually a boy with cut up wrists and a rattling bottle of pills in his pocket just in case he decided to break his promise. I wish they'd never signed those papers admitting me to that child psych ward. But I can't change any of that.

 

The nurse comes into the room and smiles. "Katherine, its time for your meds." I want to tell her not to call me that. I wanted to say, "My name is Sebastian and I am a BOY and if you ever deny that, I'll hit you in the throat with a fucking stiletto heel." But I can't. As punk as I seem to be, want to be, anxiety kills me. I can't speak to anyone. I take the pills. I hope she'll leave soon. I would rather stay here and stare at the wall and figure out some way I can kill myself here. But they take away anything remotely dangerous. I can't even have a ballpoint pen.  
“Katie, Dr. Greene wants to see you in her office.” Shit. I didn't do anything wrong. Dr. Greene directs the ward. She's in charge of everything. People go there for disciplinary problems, and then they don't come back for a few days. Or at all.  
“What'd I do wrong?” I stutter out the words. My voice is scratchy and raw. I don't talk much here, just think. It's a nightmare, leaving a kid like me alone with his thoughts. Don't let a manic depressive think too much.  
She laughs. “Nothing, sweetie. I don't know what she wants you for. Maybe you're getting released.” She smiles. I hope she's wrong. I can't go back. I'd rather have white padded walls and doctors and blank faces and silence. Not home. Anywhere but there.  
I follow her through the halls. Blank faces. They're all staring at me. Watching me. They know I'm a freak. They see “suicidal tranny freak” spray painted on my back.  
The door is basic, a plain oak door with a brass plaque stating “Dr. Alison Greene, Director”. The nurse knocks twice. Knock a third time, I want to say. You're not supposed to knock twice.  
Dr. Greene opens the door. She's a tall woman with gold hair in a tight bun and a thin face. She's like a hawk. I know I'm shaking.  
“Sit down, Miss Augustia.” I take my seat. She's still standing. “Katherine, it's Katherine, right?” I nod. “This afternoon, we're getting a new patient. However, we have no empty rooms. Most of our clients have roommates, but you do not.” Clients. Like we choose this place. “I know you like being on your own, but she's about your age, and it would be spectacular if you could share your room with her.” A room. With another person. With a girl. She'll be mean and call me a freak and watch me sleep and see how fucked I am. I can't have that. “Is that okay with you, Katie?” She stares at me. Begging. I have her at my will. But I shouldn't manipulate her. I need to seem like I'm good. She can't know how fucked up I am. She'll give me more pills and tell me I'm doing great but then she'll say things like, “You know that freak, Katie? The one in room 231? She thinks she's a boy. She's completely psycho. Tried to off herself at school with pills. God, I wish she had succeeded.”  
“Katie? Katie, can you hear-”  
“Yes.” I cut her off. I'm nearly silent. It's fine. I can do it. Lying to myself is a great way to cope. “Yes, I'll take the roommate.”  
“Great! Her name's Chloe. She'll be here around three. Thank you so much for doing this. It means the world to the program.”  
“You're welcome.” I start to leave.  
“Katie, if you want I'll get you something as reward.” My eyes light up. “What would you like?” Razorblades. I want to say razorblades. I can't. I'm not supposed to. My eyes scan the room. I mahogany shelf. Books. They're mostly big doctor books. On her desk, there's a blue paperback. An escape. 800 pages of not here. I don't know what book it is. I don't care. I need it.  
I point. “My book?” I nod. She hands it to me. “All yours.”

 

I'm in my room. An hour until she's here. Chloe. Someone I know was named Chloe. Used to know. She was beautiful. I'm trying to forget her now. I miss her.  
I scanned the back cover while I walked through the hall. A Game of Thrones by George RR Martin. There's an HBO series of those books. Fantasy, with sex and dragons and politics. I need this. The Seven Kingdoms is far enough away. An escape.

 

Knock. Knock. Always twice. It's that nurse, the one who calls me 'sweetie'. I put the book down.  
“Your new roommate is here.”  
A tall girl walks into the room. Her hair is long and flowing. Naturally black with a stripe of hot pink. I shake my head. No. No no no. No no no no no no no. It can't be her. Anyone but her. She drops the suitcase. It can't be real. It's all a dream. Fever dream. Maybe I took LSD instead of my meds this morning. It has to be fake.  
“I guess this is my home now.” Chloe smiles to the side. It's her. Two moons are colliding. She is here.

 

It's an awkward silence. Feels infinite. She's watching me. I can tell. She knows. She knows I fucked up. She knows I am fucked up. I can't stand the silence. But I can't speak. I can't say a goddamn word.  
“So...” She's talking. She's talking to me. She swore she never would. “How's it been?”  
She's talking like nothing happened, and I feel like I've been shot. There is a bullet ripping through my chest because of her. “Eh.” I want to say, I broke my promise. I want to tell her I'm sorry. I can't. “You?”  
“I'm here, aren't I?” She laughs. In that moment, the memory of how I loved her crashes down on me. I still love her. I've repressed that with crushes and meaningless hookups. She still means everything to me. “What's happened since we stopped talking?”  
How am I supposed to tell her I slit my wrists every night thinking of her? How am I supposed to tell her I overdosed because I thought- no, I knew I had nothing left without her? How am I supposed to tell her I stalked her blog to see if she was happy now? How am I supposed to tell her... “I was so alone.”  
I didn't plan on crying. But somehow, with those four words, a deep, unquenchable sadness welled up inside me and water poured from my eyes.  
I don't think she planned on holding me tight and saying, “It's gonna be alright, Spice Boy.” She hadn't called me that in months. She used to call me 'Basil' because of my name (not my birth name, my REAL name), but then she came up with Spice Boy and never called me anything else.  
When she lets go, she looks sad. But I can't speak. I can never say a word about it. I go back to my book. She goes to see one of the doctors. Maybe things will get better. Maybe. Probably not. But she called me 'Spice Boy'. My Chlorine called me Spice Boy. In the back of my mind, I know she's compassionate in nature. I know letting me go terrified her, because she didn't want to see someone suffer. She didn't care about me. She just wanted everyone to be okay.

 

It's dinner time. We're in the dining hall, patients in white and doctors in blue. I sit as far from the crowd as I can. A boy tries to warn me about something, but I tune him out. “The end is coming!” he shouts, before running elsewhere. I look at the plate of food. It looks awful. I'll force myself to eat it, and I'll probably throw it up. I'm not bulimic, it's just nasty.  
“Can I sit here?” Chloe has a tray of food. I nod. She tries to talk to me, but only about vacuous subjects, like pop culture. I lost my connection with mostly everything after she left. I don't get half of what she's saying. Then she makes a pun about a song I love. It's not even funny, but I laugh. I talk with her about puns and music and I watch her dark eyes light up as she speaks.  
“And so I threw the sugar cubes off the bridge while singing Fall Out Boy.” She finishes her story. I laugh. Suddenly, I don't feel so empty. It's like old times. Laughing. Jokes about bands. Smiles. Puns. I never knew how much I missed this until it came back.  
A bell rings. We walk back to the room. Our room. I never thought I'd sleep in the same room as her. A nurse follows us and explains the procedure of nights in the ward. I'd gotten used the routine on my second day. It felt strange to hear it all explained again.

 

It's late now. We're supposed to be asleep, but Chloe is whispering something under her covers. I wonder what got her here. I don't know what happened to her. I know she's been pretty fucked up, but I don't think that she was ever suicidal. I don't even know if she's been diagnosed as anything. I try not to think about what happened. I'm the broken one. Not her.  
I want to ask her what she's whispering. I don't talk to myself whenever there's anyone else around, and she's smart enough to do the same. Maybe something inside her broke in those six months. Something that pills cannot fix.  
Her words are rhythmic. Almost musical. I wonder if she has an ipod or a phone for a fleeting second, but she wouldn't. Chloe doesn't break rules unless they're to save someone's life. As my mind comes to this conclusion, a memory floods back. I repress it. I am strong. I can forget it.  
“Vindicated, I am selfish, I am wrong.” She enunciates part of it. She's singing. Tears well up in my eyes, as much as I fight them back. She sang for me every night over Skype calls. Her voice is beautiful. Not perfect. Beautiful. She's passionate and decent and I'm in love with her, and the combination of those three creates a beautiful voice.  
“Chlo?” I whisper. I'm not supposed to be awake. Neither is she. She pops her head out from under the blanket. Her dark hair forms waves around her head. I want to take a photograph of this moment, the moment in which she looks so beautiful.  
“Yeah?”  
“W-Will you sing for me?” I hesitate. I don't want to get close again, but God knows I need her.  
“Sure. What song do you want to hear?” It's like old times. Miss Missing You. I want to say 'Miss Missing You'. Of course, I can't. It was our song. Lyrics spelled out our life and kept me alive, but I never paid attention to all of them. “Sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger. The person that you take a bullet for is behind the trigger.” The first line saved me. The second one broke me. And the song was 100% Chloe.  
“Sing something by Blink-182.” She has a choice of a hundred or so songs. Any of them will do.  
She takes a deep breath. “I never thought I'd die alone. I laughed the loudest, who'd have known?” She knows. Or maybe she's just like me, just like Adam. I'm not sure if I want to know. “I traced the cord back to the wall, no wonder it was never plugged in at all.  
“I took my time, I hurried up. The choice was mine, I didn't think enough.” I'm on the verge of tears. “I'm too depressed to go on, you'll be sorry when I'm gone.” I join her on the last two lines. We sit together on her bed and sing the sad song about a boy named Adam who committed suicide. His friends wrote in to his favorite band, and the band wrote a song. And now two fucked up kids are singing it in a psych ward.  
“You broke your promise, Sebastian.” She can see through me. She can see what got me here. I nod slowly. “You pinky swore!” She's angry, the kind of anger that made her dig her nails into my wrists and made her pull on my shirt collar as she told me to “stay alive”.  
“I couldn't do it anymore! I knew you didn't care anymore! What was the fucking point of living without you?” My voice cracks. She looks so broken when I say this. “I'm sorry.” The apology was nearly silent. “I'm so sorry.”  
“Other people care! What about your other friends?” Oh my god. She doesn't know. She has no clue.  
“You're wrong.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I haven't had a real conversation since December. No one talks to me.” I had a few people that were there for a little bit, one night stands or one week friendships. They all left. “I only had you.” I break down. I want her to hold me and tell me it will all be alright. I know it won't be. I know it will never be alright.  
“Oh.” The word sounds broken. Like the only thing left inside her has gone. Like she can see that I am broken, that she broke me. “I'm sorry.”  
“Don't be. It's not your fault. It's fine, really.” The word 'fine' has got to be the biggest lie in the English language. It is her fault. I know it's her fault. She knows. I can't blame her, though. I will never blame her for anything. This isn't love anymore. This is obsession. Unrequited obsession.  
She hugs me. “I know you're not, Seb.” She feels warm. She feels the same as she used to. Like nothing has changed. She still smells like tea and old books and her hair still feel soft and thick and curly as it still smoothly slips through my fingers. I never want to let her go.

 

I wake up in her bed, only I don't remember she's here at first. Yesterday floods back to me. My heart flutters. I quickly and silently move to my own bed, so the nurses don't see we slept together. We slept together. It's romantic. Only, it wasn't. Strictly platonic (and there was no sex). I fall back asleep. My tee shirt smell like her. It's lovely.  
I dream of her and her coming back. Like nothing had happened, she forgave me and she kissed me, and then she turned to dust. This has been a reoccurring dream since December, yet this time it's different: she has come back. I wonder if you can go crazy in a hospital like this, if I'm imagining Chloe to cope with the fact that I am completely alone and suicidal. When I wake up, I look to see her sleeping in the bed next to me. She's real. She's alive. And she is beautiful.  
Knock. Knock. Always two knocks. The same nurse brings the pills for both of us, and escorts us both the dining hall. Chloe sits with me and talks with me about music and books. I eat. She doesn't.  
“Can you throw this out for me?” She hands me the paper tray. All of the food is still there. I stare, my eyes wide. “I just don't like eggs.”  
I nod and carry over both trays to the trash. As I return to the table, the nurse stops me. “What are you doing?”  
“Going to sit down.” It comes out like a question: “Going to sit down?” Why would she ask me? Isn't it obvious?  
“I saw you dump two trays.”  
“I brought over Chloe's.”  
“Was there food on it?”  
“Yes?”  
“Go get another one for her.” I follow her orders, but I don't understand. Chloe just didn't want the food. I bring it back the table. There's a fearful expression on her face.  
“What are you doing?” She's shaking. “Seb, what are you doing?”  
“I got you food. The nurse told me to get you more.” Her chocolate eyes are wide. I don't understand. Why is she scared of an omelet? It's not much. I know the food here is awful. But it's not worth anxiety.  
“Sebastian,” she lowers her voice. “I can't eat that.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I. Cannot. Eat. That.” She hisses at me in the same voice she only used with she forced me to do something, like throw away a razorblade or give her my tie.  
“What do you mean? I don't get it.” She glares at me. Now I'm shaking. She could walk away again. She could hurt me physically. I might be alone. “I'm sorry.”  
“Is there a problem, girls?” The nurse comes over. I don't even know her name. I should ask her name. She's like my shadow.  
“No, no problem.” Chloe's a great actress.  
“Chloe, are you going to eat your eggs?”  
“Uh- Of course.” Her eyes show the lie. They are wide as dark, twin moons.  
“Show me.”  
Her leg starts tapping uncontrollably. She picks up the plastic fork. At the speed of molasses, she brings a forkful of eggs to her mouth. I watch her eat. She looks so scared. She looks sick.  
“I'm full, may I be excused?” She's only taken a few bites. The nurse looks from me to her.  
“One more bite.” She shakes.  
Its on the fork, almost to her mouth. She opens her mouth. “I- I can't do it.” She puts down the fork.  
“You have to.”  
“I can't.”  
“Chloe, please.” I stare into her. She looks like a deer in the headlights. She brings the fork up again. I expect her to not eat it. “Please,” I say again.  
She chews. She swallows. “Can I leave now?” The nurse nods. Chloe runs out.  
“What's wrong with her?” The nurse laughs out the words.  
I shake my head. “I don't know. She wasn't like this before.”  
“Before?”  
“She's Chloe. The Chloe. My friend.” The nurse's eye's get wide.  
“Oh my god.” She stares at the door Chloe left through. “Oh my god.” I nod. “Have you told Dr. Greene or your therapist?”  
I shake my head. “I haven't met with either of them since she got here. She's been talking to me, and I think we're almost friends again.” I take a moment to process what I said. Almost friends again. Would it all be okay? Is it even possible to heal a wound like that?  
“Just watch out, okay? Don't get yourself hurt, Kate.”  
I leave the room to go back to my room. I haven't told any of the doctors or nurses here that I'm a boy. I know I should, but if I tell them, they'll break the contract and tell my parents and I can't go through that. I can't tell them. I just can't.

 

I knock softly on the door to our room. Three knocks. So she knows it's me. “Chloe?” I say softly.  
When I open the door, I can't find her. “Chloe?” I call out again.  
“In here.” Her voice sounds like she's been crying. I look around. She's in the bathroom, laying on the floor.  
“What's wrong?” I walk over to her. She looks broken and sad. I want to hold her and kiss her. I can't. She doesn't love me, she never did. Even if she did, it was always in the wrong way.  
“I feel sick.”  
“What's wrong?”  
“I am sick.” She continues like I never spoke. “I'm sick, I'm sick, I'm sick.”  
“Why?”  
“134 pounds.”  
“What?”  
“One hundred and thirty four pounds.”  
“I still don't understand.”  
“It's too much. It'll always be too much.” I stare at her. She's skinny, skinnier than me. She's always been skinnier. Always been prettier. How can she hate her body? She's perfectly curved and tanned, like a Latina barbie doll. Or at least she used to be. Now her bones jut out and her skin is sallow. I want to cry.  
“No it's not.”  
“Yes it is.”  
I don't know how to comfort her. I wish I could make her see herself the way I see her. I don't know how. I wish that she could love herself, and as selfish as it is, I wish she could love me.  
“Chloe, you're not fat.”  
“Yes I am. Look at me.” I stare. Her face is thin and gaunt, even thinner and gaunter than I remember.  
“Show me. I don't believe you.” She lifts up her shirt. I can see her ribs and hip bones, all pointy and sticking out. She's so thin. Thin enough that she could snap if you touched her. I stare. What happened? Where is the weight she's talking about? How does she fit 134 pounds without having any fat or muscle? She's all bone.  
“Oh my god.” I don't mean to let the words out. “What happened to you?”  
“I don't know.” I watch her curl into a ball and cover her face with a curtain of dark hair. I can't see her like this. I've never seen her broken. I was the broken one. I was always the broken one.  
And then a monster creeps up in my head: my fault. I broke her. She starved herself because of me, because of her freak. I don't know how I did it, but I know I did. Everything is my fault. My family has explained that to me enough.  
I can't stop myself now. I grab her and hold her and I don't let her go. I will never let her go.

 

I told my doctor I am “fine” and “recovering well.” I did not tell her I am boy. I did not tell her about Chloe. I did not tell her that my roommate might be more broken than me. I will not tell her.

 

When I get back to the room, Chloe is flipping something between her fingers. A cigarette. Why? She never smoked before. She told me cigarettes scared her, since cancer nearly killed her uncle. And how did she get a cigarette? They would never allow it in a place like this.  
“Did you know Dr. Greene smokes a pack a day?” I shake my head. “Did you know she always leaves her purse out in office when she gets up to take a personal call?” She grins and holds up three bony fingers. “She won't miss 'em. She won't miss one of her four lighters.”  
“Since when do you smoke? You always said it scared you 'cause it'll kill you.”  
“Exactly.” It takes me a moment to understand.  
“Oh.” She's destroying herself.  
“Want one?”  
“They'll catch us.” I don't admit that I'm scared to try it. I'm suicidal and broken and I don't plan on living to my twenties, and yet part of me won't smoke because if I got better, I would just die.  
“The roof.”  
“Huh?”  
“I know how to get to the roof and make them think we're somewhere else.”  
Is she even the same Chloe I knew? The Chloe I knew was curvy and loved food and was smart and scared of drugs and took AP classes and never would steal or break a rule unless it was to save a life. This Chloe smokes and steals and is too skinny. This is not the girl I fell in love with. I miss that Chloe.  
“Sebastian, do you want to go with me to the roof or not?”  
“I'll go.” What happened? Why? Is this why she's here? Or is it the eating disorder? What happened to my Chloe since December? Where is the girl I knew?  
“Follow me. They're going to watch a movie at four, I think it's Frozen or something else G rated and lame. And they're going to turn off the lights and project it, and it'll be dark.”  
“Yeah, so?”  
“Dr. Greene had two universal hospital keys. Now she has one.”  
I stare at her. I don't know her at all. But I want to. This Chloe might love me, she is vulnerable enough that I could fulfill her accusations and manipulate her into loving me. I know I shouldn't. I'm disgusting and cruel and I am what she says I am.  
“I'll go.” I want to say, “I do not know who you are Chloe.” I can't.  
“Follow me, Spice Boy.”

 

The movie already started. We sign in and sit in the back. During a song we slip out quietly and walk to the stairwell. I don't even know what is happening. Who is she? What happened to the old Chloe? I miss her. I miss that Chloe.  
She slides the key into the lock and the two of us walk up the staircase. One, two, three flights of stairs. At the top, there's another door. She unlocks it. A gust of warm, May air hits me in the face. I can see the whole city. It's a small town, and yet it feels so big from the top of the hospital. I can see into the lives of thousands of people. Part of me plans on watching their lives forever and wants to come up with stories and their lives. But there's another part of me. The part of me that still wants to be gone. I could jump. I could jump and fall four stories and die. I want to. I'm at the edge.  
“Seb, come over here!” Chloe's words break me away from my thoughts of suicide. I cross the roof towards her and lean against the wall of the doorway. She lights the cigarette and breathes. As she exhales, I watch the blue smoke whirl around her head. I know I shouldn't think this way, but it's romantic. She's romantic. And beautiful. Suddenly, I want to kiss her more than ever.  
“Want one?” She holds out one of the cigarettes. I shrug. You're not going to live long enough for the cancer to set in anyway,, I remind myself. I pluck it from between her fingers and she lights it for me. I breathe in. It's gross, but good. Like a campfire, but with a strange taste that I relate to the houses of the bad part of town. My throat burns with each breath. As I breathe out, I cough hard.  
“Fuckin' pansy.” Chloe laughs. This is not the girl I know, but I think I could love this Chloe, too.  
I don't get what happened. I would kill to ask her why she's here, why she really left. I can't. I just can't. Sebastian does not ask questions. Sebastian is passive and depressed.  
But then again, Sebastian does not smoke. Sebastian does not talk to Chloe any more. Sebastian does not take pills without the intent of overdose.  
She is changing me the way she changed herself. I do not know either of us. Maybe if I am this far from what I was I can learn to love myself. Imagine that: someone as fucked up as me loving himself.

 

When her cigarette is down to a stub, she throws it to the ground and crushes it with her heel. The old Chloe wouldn't litter or throw a cigarette butt on the ground. I want to call her out on it, but I can't. I need to keep her around, I can't let her leave me, and people leave me when I tell them they are wrong.  
“Let's go back down,” she says. She always was the leader, I was always the follower who could be a leader if it wasn't for my anxiety. We slip into the movie room. The film is almost finished. No one knows we were gone. It makes me realize that no one would care if I were to disappear. No one would care if I were dead or missing. But maybe she would care. Maybe this new Chloe cares about me.  
And then a thought crosses my mind: Maybe I can make her fall in love with me.

 

She eases into the hospital routine within a day. At least, I think it's a day. This place makes you forget yourself and how things work and how time passes on the outside of the padded walls. Of course, there aren't actual padded walls in our rooms. I doubt there are any in the building. I tell Chloe this, and she tells me that padded walls are probably a stereotype of psych wards from the 50s, back when women could be committed just for disobeying their husbands.

 

It's after lunch, and Chloe has found a way to make it look like she ate her food without eating it. I don't know the trick, but I can see that she is even skinnier now then she was before. We start heading back to our room, but the nurse catches me by the arm and tells me my appointment with Emma is right now. Emma is my doctor. They don't tell you the therapists' last names here, they're supposed to be 'our friends' and not our doctors.  
“Hey there, Kate!” I cringe at the name. I never liked the name Katherine to begin with, but when everyone calls me it, it burns me.  
“Hey.”  
“You seem happy today! How's everything been?”  
“Good.”  
“What makes it good?”  
“I'm not alone anymore.”  
“Oh yeah, you're new roommie and you seem to be pretty chipper with each other.” Is that even how you use 'chipper'?  
“Yeah. We've got a lot in common, and I think we're gonna be best friends.”  
“You think you'll be friends with her?” What is she getting at? Why wouldn't I be friends with her? Does she know about what happened? Did Chloe say something to her?  
“Yeah, why wouldn't I be?” My pulse is racing. I feel like I've been caught up in a web of lies, but there's only one tiny lie that's caught up with me.  
“I don't know, she just doesn't look like the kind of person that a girl like you would be friends with.” I try to ignore the word 'girl' and replace it with 'boy' in my head.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Well, you seem like a good girl.”  
“Yeah?”  
“She just doesn't look like a good influence.”  
“I don't get it.”  
“Well,” she lowers her voice to a whisper. “She looks like a thug.”  
Rage burns in my throat. This isn't about my history with her, my depression or her anorexia. This is about race. This is sick. I feel sick.  
“How does she look like a thug?” I try to play dumb.  
“You've seen her, right? She looks like she's from the bad part of town.”  
I think about the 'bad part of town' Chloe is from. I think about the way her gardener gave me a dandelion because he overheard me say they were the most beautiful weeds. I think about the way her father told us to 'dress nicely for dinner' and how he scoffed at my 85 dollar jacket. I think about how she always had money on her when we went into town. I think about how she got a Porsche for her sixteenth birthday when I got a pair of headphones and a couple records. I think about her mother's toy chihuahua and how he had his own room. I think about how she didn't even need to apply for a scholarship or financial aid at our school, when I was told I couldn't go unless I got a free ride. Yeah. Chloe was definitely from the 'bad part of town.'  
“She's not.”  
“How do you know?”  
“She's rich.”  
“How do you know that?”  
“She told me.” I can't tell her that I knew Chloe before. I can't let on that this Chloe is the Chloe. I imagine she thinks the Chloe is white. She won't even guess, the racist bitch.  
“She could have been lying.”  
I shrug. “Can we change the subject?”

 

I'm lying in my bed and thinking about what has happened since I got here. It's been fucking crazy. Suicide. Pills. Chloe. Anorexia. Chloe. Cigarettes. Chloe. Racism. Chloe. Chloe, Chloe, Chloe. I'm falling back in love with her. She ruined my life. She broke me. I was supposed to forget her. I think she forgot her. I will ask her. I will ask her what happened. I will ask her why she's here. I will make her think I am as hardcore as her by smoking her cigarettes so she does not think that I will spill her secrets to Emma or Dr. Greene or any of the nurses. And I will tell her about me. I will tell her that I took 25 pills in the same bathroom where we would sit in and talk when we were supposed to be in class. I will tell her I missed her like hell. I will tell her that I am more broken than ever.  
Only, I won't tell her everything. I'll leave out how it was because of her. I can't blame her for my suicide attempt. Even if it was because I saw no point in living without her, I will never let her know.

 

“Chloe?” I lean over to her as we eat our breakfast. Well, as I eat and she does a fantastic job at making it look like she eats. Why am I letting her get away with this? I shouldn't. But if I tell someone, she'll leave me. She'll leave me. She can't leave me.  
“What's up, Spice Boy?”  
I smile a bit at the nickname. It helps me gather the strength to say: “Can we go up to the roof again?”.  
“Sure. Want me to steal you a smoke?” She winks.  
No. I want to say no. I want to tell her I hate the taste and I do not want you to smoke because I am in love with you and I cannot watch you die of cancer, even though I'll probably will kill myself before you even get diagnosed. “Yeah, sure, I guess.”

 

My heart is racing so much I cannot hear the babum, babum, babum, and I only hear a humming sound. She opens the door to the roof. It's at least 70 degrees, but my skin feels cold. I would rather jump than ask her.  
She lights the cigarettes, and I only breathe and blow once before letting it dangle between my fingers as she smokes and I try to find the courage.  
“It's an ugly city.” She walks to the edge of the roof and sits down with her feet dangling off the side. You can't see the part of town that she lives in from here. “Man, I'd kill for some place with character. London, Seattle, New York, San Francisco, LA. That's where I'd rather be.”  
“A hospital in one of those towns?”  
“If I had to be in a hospital, yeah. But I want to be free. I feel like this place is a cage and I am a bird with clipped wings. Everyone either lets their wings get clipped or is born flightless. Me, I'm gonna fly away, the day I turn eighteen.”  
“Chlorine, can I ask you something?” I try to sound casual. I am not a good liar.  
“Yeah?”  
“Why are you here?”  
Her eyes blow up like twin moons. I watch tears well up. She's shaking a bit.  
“I'm sorry.” What a fool I am, to think that those two words can undo that moment. To think they will put back the tears in her eyes and to think she will forget I ever said a word or saw her cry. I'd never seen her cry before. I always saw her as strong as steel, but now she feels like porcelain, being dropped repeatedly on a cement floor.  
“It's not your fault. Don't worry.” She just looks so broken. She isn't strong or powerful, she's scared and skinny and sick.  
“You don't have to tell me.”  
“I want to. I need to. I haven't told anyone the whole story, even the doctors. Seb, I trust you.” I stare. I never thought I'd here those three words from her lips again. “After I left you, I met a boy. His name was Jake and I thought I could trust him. I trusted him. He was tall and handsome and he loved all my favorite bands. And I loved him. I really did. He would sneak to my house every night and sleep in my bed. It was spectacular. I thought we would be young forever. He convinced me that the consequences of smoking and drinking didn't matter. And I would get black out drunk with him and never remember what happened the night before. One day I realized what he was doing and how sick it made me feel. And he was always sober with me. I was never sober with him. I told him to get out of my life. I told him I didn't want him around anymore. I told him to leave me. He told me he made me who I am. Told me he couldn't leave. He told me he loved me. When I told him he was lying, told him that I never loved him, in the hope a lie would make him leave, he told me he had been lying. 'No one could ever love a stupid, fat bitch like you.' That's what he said to me. What I did after that was stupid. I wanted to break down and cry and go back to you. Do you remember that painted chair I had that I made when I was 6? Instead of breaking down, I threw that at his head.” She laughs. “He called me a 'psycho bitch,' and left on the fire escape. My parents never even knew that he had existed. I wanted to call you that night. I didn't. I convinced myself you wouldn't want a stupid, psycho, fat bitch. I started starving myself and trying to be more like what Jake wanted me to be. Skinny, pretty, on drugs. I still wanted him back. I wasted away. Everyday, I miss him like hell. And I missed you. I missed my best friend.”  
I take a moment to process the story. She was broken, just like me. But her cracks were on different lines. We are both shattered, but my breaks were dysphoria, suicide, cuts, and manic depression. Hers were anorexia, abuse, and drugs. Maybe our pieces could be put together and we could be whole. Maybe we could be whole again.  
“I wish I could fix this. I'm sorry.”  
“I know. I do, too.”  
“I have something I should tell you.”  
“What?”  
“I just don't know if I should”  
“Should what?”  
“Say it.”  
“Anything will be be better than thinking about Jake. Just say it, Seb.”  
“I've wanted to say this for months. Since last summer, when we met, I have been in love with you. I love you, Chloe. I'm in love with you.” I have never told anyone those words before. I've lied with my 'I love you's to people that I thought loved me. But I had never meant it. I had confessed to her what I had never told anyone: that I was in love with Chloe.  
“I know. I've known. It was something I could see.” She knew? How the hell did she know? I was secretive, I was an actor. And she saw through me. “I don't see why, though.” She stares at the ground.  
“You're beautiful. You understand me. You're fantastic and smart and spectacular. When every other conversation falls flat, the two of us would talk for hours. And you cared about me. You showed me how to live. You made me who I am. You saved me from drowning when no one else could see that I was near the water, and if they did, they never gave a damn. I love you. I'm sorry.”  
“Why are you sorry?”  
“Because I'll make you feel guilty for not loving me back.” The words spill out of me. I shouldn't have said them. I didn't even see that that was the reason until I had said them. It was true, though.  
Chloe looked like she had been hit with a brick to the stomach. “I'm sorry,” I said again.

 

They say that there are such things as 'soul mates' and 'true love'. I have never believed in either, and I have always believed that all love is unrequited, to an extent. I never would have guessed in a million years how Chloe would react to that last 'I'm sorry'. If I live to be a hundred, I will still remember this moment, in full detail. I will remember how there was one cloud in the sky and it looked like a dragon. I will remember how her face looked gaunt and sick but still remained beautiful. I will remember every single word that the two of us said. I will remember how she smelled like smoke and how I dropped the cigarette that I never wanted on my thigh and how it burned through the pants the hospital gave me. I will remember how the sun was just beginning to set, and how parts of the sky were fuschia and others were gold or silver.  
But most of all, I will remember how she kissed me.  
The kiss was more than a kiss. It was a year of pent-up passion and romance, and platonic love and sexual tension. I always thought that seeing fireworks while kissing someone was a YA novel myth, but suddenly I was kissing Chloe and I was also flying. It was incredible. I cannot define this with words in our English language, or any words in any language. I finally understood all of those songs, the ones about loving someone- someone who loves you back.  
But what if it was just a kiss relieving the tension? What if it was loneliness? What if we are only in this moment? I am terrified of her only kissing me this once and telling me in the morning that it was a “mistake” and that she will “never do it again”. She'll be “sorry” and tell me she “loves me in the wrong way”. I block out the thoughts. I cannot bear to imagine going back to just friends after this. Anyway, there is too much passion for this to be a single kiss and not the first of a thousand.

 

She pulls away. It's over. My skin feels like ice. I feel like falling apart.  
“I'm sorry.” I did something wrong. My skin is hot. I'm going to cry.  
“What the hell are you sorry for?”  
“I don't know.”  
“Then why are you sorry?”  
“I did something wrong, didn't I?” She looks so sad and broken. She looks almost guilty. Like a child who had dropped her favorite porcelain doll. She had shattered me on the pavement and now saw that it is impossible to pick up a hundred million shards of china.  
“No. Nonononononononono!” She shakes her head.  
“Why, then?”  
“It's dinner time!” She laughs out the words. “If they seem we're missing, they'll keep us from coming up here! No more cigarettes or kisses! How hellish would that be?”  
I let out a breath. It was only that. I didn't do something wrong. She cares. I am not a mistake.  
“What? Did you actually think that you were bad at that?” I laugh along with her.  
“We should go.”  
“One last thing.”  
“Yeah?”  
Her tongue tastes like cigarettes and cherries. I love flying.

 

Tonight, she takes three bites of dinner. I know it's not much. But I know it's a lot for her. “You're beautiful,” I whisper.

 

Back in our room, after dinner, we sit on my bed and kiss and talk and laugh. She tells me about how once she and Jake stole one of her dad's cars and drove to Montreal and got drunk and slept in the botanical gardens and how she woke up hungover and half in a pond of lilypads. I laugh. I don't have any stories like that. I've never been drunk or stolen a car or left the country. Part of me wants to. Part of me wants to do it with her. The rest of me is scared of the consequences. I'm always scared of the consequences.  
She kisses me again. Yeah, I think I will do that with her. I would do anything for her. She deserves the moon and all of the stars. Maybe she will truly love me if I did that for her.

 

“I should probably get to bed soon.” She smiles sadly. I don't want her to. I want her to stay with me forever.  
“Okay.” She kisses me goodnight. I cannot put it into words how much she means to me.

 

“And that Chloe girl, the one who ruined your life, not your roommate, has she ever tried to contact you?” Emma is still being racist and saying Chloe's name with disgust. And the other Chloe, the one she has only heard about, she doesn't put a tone on her name. The same girl. She doesn't know.  
“No, but I haven't been outside this place in a few days, I have no way to check if she's messaged or called me.”  
“What would you do if she did? If she said she was sorry and came back into your life?” I stop breathing. What if? What if she did? She did. But why am I trusting her? Why did I let her back in? What if she's just going to manipulate and hurt me? What if she is lying to me? But what would she get out of lying to me? Out of this? Maybe she's a psychopath, and a damn good actress. I pray that's not it.  
“I don't know.”  
“Think about that. I'll see you tomorrow.”  
As I leave, my mind and stomach somersault. Should I even trust her? She left me once before. She left me and now she's back. Why is she back? I am scared that this is a dream.

 

I look at the note scribbled on the slip of paper in Sharpie, the one sticking out from under her bed. Only God knows how she managed to get a sharpie. “Things 2 steal @ hospital: pills, books, iphone, med records, booze, more cigs”. Chloe won't be able to get half of those. I got my book by being a 'good patient', and Chloe isn't exactly the model citizen.  
My eyes flit to her face. I watch her eyes dart back and forth behind their lids. I wonder what she's dreaming about. She smells like tea and old books and cigarettes. She always smelled like the first two, she loves old books, and always drinks tea. Since she got here, she's smoked a lot, so the third is inevitable. I want to ask her, Are you lying to me?, but she's asleep, and I don't want to wake her. I'm also scared she could say yes.  
I trace a heart on the skin of her thigh. “I love you”, I whisper.  
I'm always up later than her, and earlier, too. Lately I've been doing better, but I'm scared that it will get worse or shift into a mania that I cannot come out of. It's around 4 am and I'm awake. I wonder which is worse: the mania or the depression. Mania, I decide, is better, since I am not trying to kill myself because I am the best. And I don't need to sleep when I'm manic. It's easier.  
I should go back to sleep, I really should. But she looks so beautiful there, asleep. I convince myself that I have to sleep and that I need to sleep, so I kiss her lightly (so she won't wake up) before I crawl into my bed.

 

It's the first time in a long time I've had a good dream.

 

Group therapy. I hate group therapy. The moment I walk into the room, my mood drops. But Chloe is here. But here they will all call me 'she' and 'her' and 'Katie'. But when I look at her, I feel okay and my stomach ceases its flip-flopping. I smile at her and she smiles back. We can't be romantic or sexual here. They can't know. I have to pretend to be alone. Its so funny, usually I'm alone pretending to be okay and happy. Here, it's the opposite.  
We go around the circle, saying our names and diagnoses. We shouldn't have to say, “Katie, manic depressive with anxiety”, but they say it helps us “open up” or something.  
“Chloe, anorexia, depression.” She's depressed? Since when? She's always been the one who's fine, the one who's stable. I know she's not, but it's hard to see her standing in the shadow of the pedestal I put her on.  
“How have you been, Chloe?” Emma fakes her smile. That bitch. She hates Chloe, we both know that. I wish I could cut that fake smile off of her face.  
“Fine, I guess. I've been eating, not faking or puking, but eating the shit food and keeping it down.” Everyone claps. “And my roommate's been pretty fuckin' chill.” She smiles to the side and winks at me. I fall in love again.  
“And you, Katie?” Emma smiles. Katie. Katie. Katie. I hate that name, hate being Katie. I'm not Katie, I never was. But to her I am Katie. To her I'm a girl. Nausea sets in. Girl. Girl. Girl.  
“Manic depression and anxiety. I've been fine.”  
“You didn't tell us your name.”  
“They already know it.”  
“There's new people here.”  
“So?”  
“Say your name.”  
I mumble out: “Katie”.  
“Excuse me?”  
“I said my name.”  
“Miss, you need to speak up.” Miss. The word twists in my gut. Miss.  
“I said it.”  
“Say it again.”  
“I s-said it.” I'm stuttering now.  
“Tell us your name.”  
“SEBASTIAN!” The dam broke. I told them. The first people besides Chloe. “My name is Sebastian.”  
“I beg your pardon?” Emma breaks the dead silence. I'm shaking. She's not going to accept me, why did I do that? Why did I do that?  
“I said Sebastian.”  
“Katie, this isn't funny. That's not your name.”  
“Yes it is.”  
“No it's not. That's not what it says on your birth certificate.”  
“My name is Sebastian.”  
“No it's not.”  
“My name is Sebastian.” That sentence is the only one I can form now. “My name is Sebastian. My name is Sebastian my name is Sebastian my name is Sebastian.”  
“No it's not. You're a girl.”  
Chloe stands up and walks across the room. She's about a head taller than Emma. “His name,” she says coldly, “Is Sebastian. And he is a boy.”  
“She can't be a boy. She doesn't have a-” She doesn't have time to finish. Apparently Chloe has a knack for throwing chairs. Emma might need a nose job.  
“Come on Seb. Fuck this place. And fuck her!” She grabs my wrist. For the first time in a long time, I smile. Actually smile. I'm happy now.

 

I mentally add “handcuffs are very cold” to the list of things I did not know. Turns out there's a lot of rules against throwing chairs at therapists. They question me for a bit about the “incident” before deciding that I need to talk to Emma more (when she gets back from the hospital) and that it was not my fault.  
I don't know where Chloe is.

 

I tried to explain it to Emma. I couldn't. She is incredibly transphobic. I can't deal with her as my therapist, but I have to. “I told you Chloe was a bad influence,” she says. I want to cry. She did that for me. Now she's gone. They took her away. They took her away from me.

 

I can't pick up the book. I'm too sad. I sleep too much now and eat next to nothing. I want to curl up and die, but she wouldn't want me to. I can't be happy without her. I want to hold her tight and never let her go, that way they can't take her from me again.

 

Emma told me I should undergo “conversion therapy”. I've heard what that is. I know what it is. It should be illegal. I feel sick.

 

I've decided that I would actually rather be in Westeros than in this hospital.

 

Dr. Greene came by this morning with a box set of the series. “I know you like them.” I like her. I like her and that nurse. No one else.

 

I'm on the second book. My head hurts. I didn't sleep last night. I was reading. Characters keep dying. I wish I was one of them.

 

I'm scared she is gone for good. She could be dead. I miss her like hell. This isn't living.

 

I didn't know that many tears could come from one person.

 

I bit my lip so hard I bled and wrote “Chloe” in my book with blood on page 346. I'm scared I'll forget her.

 

I want to ask Dr. Greene when Chloe is coming back, but I know the answer. She isn't.

 

I stopped taking my meds. I pretend to, then I spit them up when the nurse leaves. They're under my mattress.

 

All I think about is her.

 

Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe.

 

What if I forget her face?

 

I can't count how many days it's been. A month? A week? A year? It doesn't matter.

 

I want to die.

 

I dreamed about her again.

 

What if she forgets me?

 

What if it was all a dream?

 

I slept in her bead last night. It doesn't smell like her anymore. They changed the sheets.

 

I only have 12 pills under my bed. I can't overdose on that. I wish I could.

 

“I love high fantasy and being high. They both involve dragons.” I think I started hallucinating. Chloe's standing in the doorway, with a black eye and a smirk. She's skinnier. I'm scared to hug her, because I know she's just gonna fade to dust because this is all a dream.  
But I run up anyway. I bury my face in her chest. She's warm. And real.  
“Where were you?”  
She smiles. “I was wrong, Spice Boy. They really do have padded walls.” Her smile is broken. They broke her. I am going to kill Emma for this. They locked her away and now she's broken. Why? WHY?  
Somehow, I'm the one in tears. She runs her hand through my hair. “I've missed you.”  
I don't want to wake up.

 

“Eat.” She shakes her head.  
“Not hungry.”  
“Chlorine...” She looks at me. She eats the pasta. All of it.  
“I'm gonna be sick.” She runs out. I glare at Emma. “You monster,” I mouth at her.

 

I think Chloe forgot how to cry. I want to hold her and tell her everything will be alright, but I can't. Because I can't lie. I can't lie to her.  
She's laying in my bed, curled up into the tightest ball imaginable. I walk over to her and put my hand on her shoulder. She flinches and pulls away. She's never done that before. Something changed her. I need to find out what.  
“What happened?” I ask.  
She starts to rapidly shake her head. “No. No. I can't talk about it.”  
“Why?” I sit next to her.  
“Can't.”  
I should drop the subject.  
“Chloe, what happened?”  
“Stop asking me, Katie.” Katie. Katie. Katie. She's never called me that before. Not once. That's not my name, and she knows it. She left a piece of herself in there, in that room they locked her in. This isn't either of the Chloes I knew. This is a new one, more broken then the others. She doesn't even remember my name. She shakes and shakes and doesn't cry. She flinches when I go near her.  
Just as I was starting to know the new Chloe, another one has taken her place.

 

Her eyes are blank when she walks down the hall. She doesn't talk. And when she does talk, her sentences are simple: one or two words. I don't know who she is anymore. I don't recognize her.

 

She didn't sit with me at lunch today. She sat at another table. Alone.

 

She hasn't been sleeping. I know because I haven't been, either. I'm literally worried sick. I can't keep down food. Every time she flinches, a part of me breaks. A part of me is always breaking.

 

She doesn't smell like tea or old books or cigarettes anymore. She smells like hospital. Like death and chemicals. She's a corpse now.

 

I think this is a dream. A good dream turned nightmare.

 

She stared at me like I was insane when I asked if she wanted to go to the roof.

 

Who is she?

 

I had the first appointment with the new therapy today. Emma sat me in a chair and hooked me up with more wires than I could count. She flashed pictures of girls on a projector. Every time a new girl popped up, I got a shock. I'm going to be sick. I am sick. My everywhere hurts. I'm numb from the shocks.

 

I miss Chloe.

 

During therapy today, I didn't feel anything. I was numb. And the girls on the screen didn't make me feel a damn thing anymore.

 

How long will this numbness last? I thought I liked it, but now I'm scared of it. At least, I should be. I always wanted to be numb. Now that I am, I miss pain.

 

I think I want a cigarette. I hate the taste, but it makes me think of her. I miss her.

 

The nurse I like called me Sebastian today.

 

The nurse I like isn't here today. A new one is here. She dug her nails into my wrist when I asked her where the other one is. Now I want to cut.

 

Today, Emma made me stare at a barbie doll. “This is you,” she told me. “You look like this. You are a girl. You always have been and always will be.” Girl. Girl. Girl. I feel sick.

 

“Katherine Emily Augustia” is written on the board in pink whiteboard marker. Emma makes me copy her curly-cue script. My cursive is perfect by the end of it, but dysphoria is killing me and my hand feels like it could fall off.

 

“Repeat after me, Katherine. I am a girl. I always have been and always will be.”  
“I am a girl. I always have been and always will be.” A sob catches in my throat. I can’t do this, I’d rather be dead. I wonder if I can drown myself in a bathroom sink, die that way. But Chloe. How would she feel if I was gone?  
She wouldn’t even notice.

 

I held a baby doll for my session today. I don’t understand. I hate this. I’m a boy. I can’t be forced like this, it’ll kill me. If I wasn’t in a hospital, if I had something to kill myself with, I would have been gone weeks ago.

 

Makeup. I like it, but I do not have the skill required for it. It’s a mess.

 

Maybe I was wrong about being a boy. Maybe they’re all right. Maybe it’s just a phase.  
Maybe I am a girl.

 

I convince them to let me shave my legs “so I can be more of a girl.” I took the razor blades out, put one back in, so it looks like they’re both there.  
It’s under my mattress, calling my name. Calling me Katie.

 

It says “GIRL” on my left thigh. “FREAK” on my right. Slashes on my hips.  
Vomit in my mouth.  
Dying would be a pleasure, but small blades like these won’t cut deep enough to kill.

 

I need Chloe back.

 

She’s right there, on her bed. So close, but anxiety put a thousand miles between us. I take a step. One foot in front of the other, Sebastian. Katie. Whatever my name is. I’m behind her.  
“Chloe?” Silence. “Chloe? Can you hear me?” She nods, her eyes fixed on the wall. “It’s me, Spice Boy. Sebastian. Basil. Seb. Your friend. The one who kisses you and smokes with you and hears you sing. I know you can hear me. Please, Chlorine, answer me. Do you even remember me? We used to sit up late on Skype and pass notes in class. I was the only one you ever told about Jake. You threw a chair at Emma for calling me a girl. Then you were gone for a while. You still feel gone. Chloe, I miss you. I miss talking to you and kissing you and holding your hand. Hell, I even miss you talking me out of suicide. Please, Chloe. I need you. I need my Chlorine back.”  
I watch her body shake, up and down, as it’s racked with sobs.  
“Sebastian, I remember you. They told me not to talk to you, to call you ‘Katie’. It’s eating me. And I’m not eating. Seb, that room they put me in- there was no light, no hope, no sound, or sight. I didn’t eat the food they gave me, not one bite. I would beg for you, pound at the door and scream until my voice was raw. A doctor came once, to stop me. I still feel it, feel him hitting me and touching me and I felt those bruises for days. He didn’t just break my nose when he hit me, he broke my spirits. He broke my soul. I listen to the doctors now. You never want to go in there, in that room. Never ever.”  
I grab her and hold her.  
“I love you, Chloe You are my everything, my goddess. That doctor was a monster. When we get out, we’re going to the press. I’ll tell the fucking New York Times about him and Emma and this place. And you’re gonna be there with me, be right there the whole time. And we’re gonna travel the world and never look back. You’re going to stay by my side for all of it. Never leave me again, Chloe. I love you.”  
She kissed me like she never did before.  
“Sebastian Mark Augustia, there’s something I need to tell you. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. I- I love you. I’m in love with you. I want to spend forever with you. I know we’re only 16 and in a hospital and broken, but our shards, they fit together. We’re going to get better. Both of us, together. Spice Boy, you are my universe. I think you're my one and only, my soulmate. These weeks in the hospital with you, they’ve been a fucking rollercoaster. It’s been cosmic, a fucking super nova. We are cosmic together. Sebastian, I love you.”

 

After that, I started standing up for myself. I went to Dr. Greene about Emma and that doctor. I called Emma out on her bullshit and we managed to recover to the point of release. We never fully got better, we still have our pasts and our diagnoses. But things changed. We sent the story to the press, to the world. We cowrote a novel about a fictional couple in a hospital and it became a bestseller. We made it.  
Chloe and I now travel the world, giving talks on mental health and LGBTQIAP+ rights. Eleven years after our time in the ward, talking about it still brings us both to tears. But we’re okay now, doing a thousand times better. I had surgery on my 24th birthday, gender reaffirmation surgery. I haven’t been called Katie in years. I never thought it would be this good.  
I look over at Chloe before we head on stage. A talk in our hometown, it feels strange. Neither of us have been back in years.  
She can clearly see how anxious I am. She kisses me softly and I smile against her lips. I never thought I would live this long, long enough for semi-fame and surgery. Or that she would love me.  
She grabs my hand, the diamond on hers scrapes me. I smile. “Ready to go?” I nod.  
I’m happy now.

 

I never thought that a place like that would fix me, and in a way it didn’t. A girl I found there did. A beautiful girl, whom I love. The hospital didn’t help me, it wasn’t alone in its position as my savior. It was two things. Those reasons I am alive are a hospital stay and a beautiful girl.


End file.
